


A Heap of Broken Images

by Hesiones



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesiones/pseuds/Hesiones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of Aruani drabbles.</p><p>"April is the cruellest month, breeding<br/>Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing<br/>Memory and desire, stirring<br/>Dull roots with spring rain"</p><p>        -     The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was "Aruani: Kiss Me" from an anon on Tumblr. Hope you enjoy!

      She often wondered what a kiss felt like.

      She frequently overheard girls describing their romantic lives while their friends hung onto their every word, drinking in this new, unfamiliar information, hoping that one day they too would be able to put this knowledge to use.

     She would block off their whispers, try to continue whatever she was originally doing, walk away. Their world was not hers. She had no business there.

     She wasn’t supposed to sincerely make friends in this place, much less attachments of the other sort. Both meant that you gave a chunk of your heart away, hoping that you would get a chunk of someone else’s heart in return.

     But it was hard not to think about it.

     Especially when a boy with golden hair and a sweet face and beautiful eyes that shone afternoon-sky blue would smile at her gently, understanding evident in the soft contours of his lips. She‘d catch herself digging up a bleeding, pulsing mass of her heart just for him – and quickly try to put it back. Her chest would throb in pain as her heart reluctantly wove itself back together. Funny how it never hurt when she tore the pieces out in the first place.

     He was weak physically, but that didn’t matter much. He was incredibly intelligent, incredibly persuasive, incredibly kind. He –

    He…

     …

     Plus, he had guts. That was too much. She could beat him in a physical fight easily, but there were a thousand more things he could beat her at. She had to watch out for him. He, who could guess (with chilling accuracy) her thoughts, who could glimpse into her soul for a split second. He, who could talk her into something without any semblance of wheedling or cajoling. He, who could remain unfazed by her and all that she seemed to be, offering a smile and thoughtful words that somehow made her day better. He, who could blind her like sunlight glinting on the water.

     Although, in a way, he was good for her. He was a constant reminder that she was frail and foolish and fragile. He could disarm her before a thought could cross her mind, if he tried. And he hadn’t tried yet. Sometimes, he didn’t even need to try.

     When she thought of kissing, she thought of him.

     Because really, if being in the same room with him made her eyes itch to search for that familiar, noon-gold head of hair, if glances from him made her insides quiver, if the occasional brush of skin on skin set off shooting stars in her blood, then to what magnitude would a kiss from him break her?

     Some mornings, when she woke up early, she would find him sitting with his back leaned against a tree, staring at the sky. Together they would watch the dawn break, in all of its rosy oranges and breath pinks and floating cumulus clouds. Some mornings, he would brush back a lock of palest yellow that had fallen out of her tight hair knot, his fingers lingering on her cheek for just a blink of light, and she would _know_.

     _Kiss me_ , the thoughts in her head would scream. Kiss me so that I don’t have to kiss you first. Kiss me so that, when I fail, I don’t have only myself to blame, for I can say that you kissed me and I fell in love and love is such a terrible, wanton, uncontrollable force and I am but a weak, lonely girl.

     She often wondered if she had failed already.


	2. Springsweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
> But I have promises to keep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep.
> 
>   Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening ♦ Robert Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late for Aruani week ehe

     She was fragile, but not many realized that.

     Fragile, he thought. If he touched her, that ancient, child-like root of his intuition had always whispered, she might disappear. Go. Leave forever. She’d be here, just within reach, then she’d be gone. She’d vanish and leave nothing but memories, and memories faded from minds like fog burned up in sunlight. See, she was a small shrub in the forest.  An herb with wicked thorns, miraculous medicinal properties – but so delicate, so easily driven back into the earth, where she would lie dormant to recover all the lifetimes ripped from her.

     (He had often thought about touching her.)

     Of the few times he had touched her, most were accidents (though if he examined the accidents – which he had, all of them, not just the accidents – most hadn’t been accidents, at least subconsciously), some were conscious, and all left him with a catch in his breath, left him wondering if that ancient, child-like root of his intuition would prove correct. Of course, they also left him hoping fervently – almost praying – that the ancient, child-like root of his intuition wouldn’t prove correct.

     And it proved neither correct nor incorrect. Sometimes, something fleeting would whisper through her face, and she’d stay. Sometimes, something fleeting would whisper across her face, and she’d leave.

     (But not forever.)

     And sometimes during class, or during a meal, or during the trainees’ free hour after supper, or when he was lying on his bed, waiting for sleep to steal over him (like thoughts of her stole over him), he’d take these precious, fleeting instances out from a drawer in his heart and gently open them up. He’d pore over them (moments of skin brushing skin, brushing cloth, brushing hair, cloth brushing cloth, brushing hair, eye meeting eye, eyes meeting words, words meeting words, words meeting silence) and other delicate glass-spun interactions, study her eyes, the tilt of her head, the set of her lips, try to see what he could not see the last time, try to know what he could not know the last time. Their creases became worn under his countless, countless scrutinies.

     He read memories of her even more nowadays, now that he knew that there was too much he didn’t know. Again, he would go over each instance of interaction, desperately inspect them for something, anything, any sign of who she was and how they could find a way to find out _why_.

     At the same time, he also tried to lock certain electrochemical impulses that now hurt to name in the drawer in his heart and throw away the key and never find it again.

     That, of course, never worked. It couldn’t work. He’d always find the key again, because he kept her creased, worn letter-memories in that drawer.

     …certain electrochemical impulses that now hurt to name.

     Would they hurt more or hurt less if he hadn’t sensed her watching him quietly so many times, as if while contemplating a lake, wondering about the ocean? If he hadn’t glanced over at her so many times in response and caught her abruptly looking away, as if she suddenly remembered that she could fall into the summer-blue waters and not come up for air? What if he hadn’t felt the tiniest of spring buds blush upon her cheeks when he brushed his fingers over them to tuck a stray lock of sunlight (in the guise of soft-falling hair) behind her ear so many times? If he hadn’t realized that the pale, late winter snow of her skin wasn’t deep enough to hide the first signs of spring?

     Before Stohess, before the sunlight faltered into fall, before the terrible knowledge of winter settled in with the children in their little cabin in the wilderness, blizzards howling at them while their little fire tried to imitate the steady warmth and light of the sun that they once had (but their little fire only succeeded in reminding them of the orange flames, the floating cinders of the city they and the last of the summer sun helped to burn), before the bleak darkness and the screams in the night, he had read her records to perhaps find a missing piece in the question of Her.

     He found that her birthday fell just after the spring equinox, when day and night were equally long, when night had been longer but day had started to slowly extend into the time that night had held. Sunlight girl, he had asked, Springsorrow lady, Summer Sybil, what secrets do you wrap your roots around, and so tightly?

     What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, she answered and did not, You cannot say or guess, for I know only a heap of broken images, where the sun beats1. (I was once a seed, and before the dry, dry winds blew me away, the tree from whence I came gave me a promise to feed on and promises to keep.)

     But Night said Enough, we have gone on too long without water – come out, Sun, so that I will make you set.

     Yes, Sunlight Girl had agreed, I am the Sun; I will come out, and show you the desert.

     Now she had encased herself in eternal winter, yet they needed her for light to shine in places where it had not for a hundred years, maybe two thousand.

     (He’d never known until now that they could hurt the Sun, but they could, they could strain sunlight and make her weaker than winter, they could make her eclipse and tear her apart again and again, and if they had to keep tearing her into drops, they would, for she could not help but live.)

     Maybe, he hoped, maybe she will come out when spring comes, or maybe a little after spring comes.

     May the weather next season be good to us2, he prayed, and may we be good to the spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Lines 19-22 of _The Wasteland_ by T. S. Eliot  
>  2\. A tweaking of line 1 or lines 8-9 of Broken Sonnet by Carl Sandburg


End file.
